


and i would break this world for you

by kaeneuss



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26538373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeneuss/pseuds/kaeneuss
Summary: nights before, between, and after.snapshots of their love.
Relationships: Ophelia Phamrsolone/Kirschtaria Wodime
Kudos: 25





	and i would break this world for you

The first time he had met Ophelia, she had given him flowers.

He stared at the bundle of hushed pink and burnished blue, clasped in her gentle hands (how gentle, he knew so well). 

“What’s with those?” he had asked.

“I thought it might be a good gift for my senior,” she replied carefully, glancing at him shyly with her one eye. “Do you… not like it?”

“No, that’s not it.” He paused. “They’re nice.”

Ophelia let out a sigh of relief, holding a hand to her chest. A light blush tinged the edges of her ears, a color not dissimilar to the roses she held. 

He smiled and brought out a plump black vase in the shape of a cat from under the sink — a recent gift from Daybit — and unwrapped the flowers carefully. That night, the small bouquet of roses and hydrangeas spread itself over his desk silently.

(He found himself gazing at it from time to time. Unknowingly, those flowers started to become a daily part of his life as well.

When they wilted, she brought him more.

He wasn’t sure what to do with them. But he kept them anyways, making sure to water them and that none of the stems were rotting.)

\---------------------------------------------------------

There was a night that was cold, a night that reminded him of things that should’ve been kept away and should’ve stayed deep in the dark recesses of his memories, never to be found again.

That night, there was a knock at his door near 10 o’ clock. Kirschtaria opened the door to find Ophelia standing there, a book clasped in her arms. She looked up to meet his gaze with a soft cerulean eye and he had lost whatever remained in his mind after seeing her, usually so dignified, in _bear pajamas._

“...Ophelia. What do you need?” 

“I’m sorry for bothering you at this late hour. May I… talk with you a little bit?”

He had responded with a nod and moved to the side so that she could step inside. She took the unspoken offer and walked into his room, eye downcast.

They were tired and did not speak much more that evening; it was a sort of light quiet that hung over them, comforting and familiar all the same. 

(He found that he had no more nightmares that night.

They spend more time together.

It becomes another routine for him. She comes at night, holding a book in her hands. He invites her inside, and they talk quietly. Just snippets of conversation here and there. Things like “How was your day?” or “What are you doing now?” 

And sometimes she stays over, falling asleep in his bed. He tucks her in, and pulls out a futon and sleeps on the floor. It’s cold.

He finds that this doesn’t bother him.)

\---------------------------------------------------------

One night, they lay awake talking in the half-light. Kirschtaria finally asked her a question that had sat mulled in the back of his mind and heart for many months.

“...Do you care for me?”

“Of course,” said Ophelia lightly, then paused. “Why are you asking?”

“I suppose I was simply wondering.”

“Hmm.” She rolled onto her back; he could hear the amusement in her voice. “I can imagine the gist of it. Dramatically philosophical as usual?”

He huffed. “I was attempting to be serious, Ophelia.”

“You’re always serious, Kirschtaria,” she teased.

He sensed that she didn’t want to talk about these kinds of things — not right now — and let it go, though something gnawed at him. He stared at the ceiling in silence as he tried to figure it out. Was it concern for her? Curiosity? The desire — need? — to know her feelings, so that he could… what? Accept her? Feel better about his own? Was this guilt, now, because he had taken advantage of her kindness?...

“Kirschtaria. Can I kiss you?”

Ophelia’s shadow and warmth hovered over him, her features barely visible and her voice now subdued. She always asked beforehand, but not often; they rarely engaged in the gesture (indeed, only a handful of times thus far). Not because they didn’t like it, but mostly because they didn’t feel a need for it, or didn’t think about it — but now that she had said it, oh, he had wanted it. And he didn’t even feel embarrassed about it.

“Yes,” he breathed out, and reached for her. He kissed her just once, slowly, a sigh against her lips, his hand caressing her hair and her jaw.

Something so easy in the darkness.

He closed his eyes so that there was only gentle touch, gentle sound, gentle darkness — layer under layer, like petal under petal. There was his melancholy under his carefulness, a simple, momentary desire for physical affection born from it (that he did not know they shared), and his urge to give, to be _kind_ to her, welling up within him — and she retreated with a murmured “goodnight”, and all became quiet.

She stands up to leave.

“I know you brought me flowers every week, Ophelia,” he said, suddenly, softly, but she had already departed.

_I never thanked you, did I? How do I thank you? How do I give back, when you expect nothing in return?_

\---------------------------------------------------------

He came to understand how. There were flowers of his own of a different shape — yes, a little pricklier and messier — that he could still lay by her bedside of sorrows.

“Kirschtaria!"

He flew awake, trying to make her out in the darkness, and was stunned to find her sobbing beside him.

“Ophelia?”

“Kirschtaria,” she cried, flailing weakly. “Kirschtaria, you’re all right?”

_Ah…_

“I am fine. Take deep breaths. Calm your heartbeat.”

She kept saying his name, over and over. He helped her sit up, held her and stroked her back, mostly since he wasn’t quite sure what else to do and partly because that was what she had done for him, long ago.

“What did you dream of?” he asked awkwardly, after a while.

“You,” she choked, “were dying. I _saw_ it.”

_Of all things…._

“Ophelia,” he sighed, cupping a damp cheek. Her eye shone wet and sorrowful as she searched his face. He hugged her again, silently, trying not to think of cold, gray streets and rain and the color of the cloaks his assassins wore. He wondered how often that haunted her, in the past and now — wondered how often she dreamt of his death, and if he should’ve even told her in the first place — and held her tighter. She remained stiff in his arms as he spoke words of comfort awkwardly into her ears; words that felt so foreign in his mouth because he had never said them to anyone else before.

“I did not die by their hands, Ophelia,” he reminded her, gently. _Only by my own, when the time comes_ , he thought. She exhaled and nodded into his shoulder, grasping the fabric of his tank top whorled over his arms. 

A little while afterwards, once her breathing had slowed, she startled him by finding his right hand and clasping it with cold fingers.

“See, you are kind,” she whispered with a tired smile. “I always knew.”

He bit his lip and gave her hand a squeeze.

Then, as if she suddenly became aware of what was going on, she was apologizing, pushing herself away and rubbing at her face, stumbling off to the bathroom before Kirschtaria could say anything. He sat in a daze, trying to think of what one does at a time like this.

When she returned, slowly, almost shamefully, he tugged her towards him and embraced her once more. She froze. 

“Kirschtaria?..”

“Do you not want this?”

She paused and relaxed. “No, I do. Thank you.” Then she swallowed and said, “This is embarrassing. Um. You don’t have to force yourself to, um, comfort me.”

He frowned. “I will do what I want to, Ophelia.”

That made her chuckle; he knew it would. Then she leaned back and gave her a look that held something deeply intimate; imploring and cautious and soft.

“What?”

(He realized his heart was pounding).

“In that case… do you want to help me forget what I dreamed?” 

If the room had been any brighter, he might have seen a blush rising to her cheeks. Still, even in the half-light, he was close enough to see the way her gaze had dropped, her eye a little weary from her tears but beautiful nonetheless, the line of her worried eyebrow, her brown hair dipping over her forehead and the place where her Mystic Eye was. So strong, yet so vulnerable — wasn’t he the same?

“It might be the last I can do,” he said, daring himself. There was the embarrassment he knew would come — but she closed her eye and smiled so peacefully, nestling forward into the crook of his neck, and this, this was all right. He laced his fingers in her hair and thought about kissing her. 

“I take it back,” she murmured, “I don’t want to forget it — I just want to keep it safe. Kirschtaria…”

He spread apart his fingers and let his palms slide over her back and her shoulders, up to her neck and down to her hips, feeling warmth blossom everywhere as she pressed closer. 

(He kept her safe.)

He presses her lips to her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, listening to her breathe.

(He would keep her heart safe, even if it meant the world breaking.)

\---------------------------------------------------------

It’s happening less these days.

Kirschtaria has, for these past months, made a habit of waking up at the crack of dawn, of waking the instant he sees her disappear.

(And she’s bathed in that golden light, glowing brighter and brighter. A smile, her face softening and—

He turns his face away at this point.)

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore or with himself, for that matter. She’s always gone before he can say goodbye, say all the things that he wanted to tell her but never took the chance to since he took their time together for granted. He took their time together for granted, and this is something he regrets. 

Kirschtaria Wodime was not a man of many grudges. He did not hate, he did not resent, he did not despise. He forgave, and that was all.

(But he will never forgive himself.)

He does grieve, despite what Hinako thinks and Beryl believes. Not often, not in public, but he does it all the same. It’s usually late at night, that same hour she would always knock on his door (like smoke, like dreams, like a wish that won’t come true). The moon shines brightly in his Lostbelt and he can still hear the swish of her hair, the soft patter of her feet.

(Her chest, rising and falling, lips parted for the silent intake of air.)

There were too many things to tell her back then, and now that she’s gone, he can’t say any of them. Too many things left silent, too many things left hidden.

“I love you.” “I miss you.” “Please don’t go.”

(And most importantly, “Will this pain stop?”)

“It is painful sometimes.” He doesn’t want to admit that but Pepe’s eyes demand nothing but honesty.

“I know.”

“It has been getting easier to forget, to just let her vanish.”

“I know.”

“I am afraid.”

“...We all are, Kirschtaria.”

(It’s been happening less these days. 

He has yet to figure out if that’s a good thing or not.)


End file.
